Their Relationship, Over a Series of Bikes
by Teenage Mouse
Summary: In 1952, Alfred watches excitedly as a new family from England moves in down the street. It takes him a while, but finally he plucks up the courage to go and introduce himself. It's the first of many summers he will spend with Arthur, roaming around town on their bikes. And they're the first of many bikes they'll ride together as the years go by, and their relationship grows.
1. Their First Bikes

Their Relationship, Over a Series of Bikes

~ Their First Bikes ~

Arthur moved onto Alfred's street in 1952, when Arthur was 12 and Alfred was 10.

Arthur had not wanted to leave England. Still weary from war, and torn through every seam and street and household, he wanted to be there to help his homeland get better. It was his duty as an Englishman to revive it, just as his father had made it is duty to defend it.

But his mother couldn't bear it any longer. Again. Because this had all happened before.

She'd lost her father and all her five brothers in the Great War. There were too many bad memories in England; it no longer felt like home. The pain had driven her to seek a fresh start in America. And that was where she met Fred. She kept her maiden name after they married, because the war had left no men in her family to carry it on.

At the start of the _next_ great war, Fred wanted to move to England. His country weren't ready to join the fight yet, but he wanted to protect the home of the woman he loved. And he did. He just didn't make it back home himself.

Neither did Arthur's four older brothers. The eldest two had run off to enlist, legally or not. And the twins…well, nobody was safe during the Blitz. They had been risking their lives helping others to safety, as they often did during the nights when the lights went out and the air raid sirens blared. And one night their luck ran out.

Arthur had been a bit of an 'accident'. His brothers delighted in telling him so, even when he was just a toddler. Why else did he think his mother was older than the other mothers in the neighbourhood?

But Alice Kirkland never let Arthur take their cruel jokes to heart. She told him that she delighted in having her littlest boy by her side. He had brought her number of sons up to five – to make up for the five brothers she had lost before. And since Fred had died mere weeks after Arthur was made, that happy summer when her husband had come home for a few short days, Arthur had been the best parting gift she could ever hope to have. Especially since Arthur looked the most like his father, Alice told him. And Arthur, even at 3, would shove that in his brothers' faces.

Until they were all gone.

And once again, Alice was left in a broken country, with a broken family. But at least now, thank God, she had Arthur.

And although America was now a place of bad memories, too – the country where her husband was born, where they met, where the next tragedy began – Alice decided her last son should see it. She wanted Arthur to know the life that Fred had known growing up, not the tragedy that _she'd_ suffered through as a child.

And that was how Arthur and his mother ended up moving into the little green house at the end of the street.

Although Alfred – peering out of the window of his big blue house, watching the moving van and trying to catch a glimpse of the new neighbours – didn't know any of that at the time.

It took Mrs. Jones 2 full days of nagging at him before Alfred braved the new neighbours in person.

"Why don't you stop asking _me_ what sort of people they are, and what England is like, and go and find out for yourself?"

Like she thought he was nervous or something. Ha! Alfred wanted to laugh at something so silly! Of course he wasn't _nervous _of the new neighbours. Who was afraid of some new older kid moving down the street. Certainly not Alfred. He was just…being courteous and giving them time to get comfortable in their new home, he told his mother.

Mrs. Jones laughed at that. For quite a long time. And then when his father got home from work, she told _him_ what Alfred had said, and Mr. Jones laughed, too.

"It's very kind of you to let them settle in, Alfie," his mother said, stroking her son's hair as his parents put him to bed. "But perhaps the new neighbour boy is lonely? Don't forget he's just moved to a brand new home in a brand new country! It must be very different and strange for him, especially without any friends to show him around and help him understand American life. He's probably just sitting in his new room all bored. Or helping his mother _tidy_ and unpack all the boxes."

"Tidying? Bleurgh!" said Alfred's father, making a disgusted face. "Sounds to me like the new boy could really use a hero to help him out of that one. Someone to get him out that house and lead him around town to show him what's what."

Alfred was sold.

As his parents turned off his bedroom light and bid him goodnight with warm smiles from the doorway, Alfred was already planning how to introduce himself to the new neighbours, first thing tomorrow morning.

"I-I-I-I-I'm looking for the new kid! I wanted to see if he needed a hero to stop the tidying."

That certainly had _not_ been the plan he'd decided upon, but Alfred had got a bit flustered when it was the mother who opened the door. In his daydreams, it had always been the _boy_ who opened the door, so he'd prepared for that.

"Certainly! _Do_ come in," the lady smiled, nonetheless. She ushered Alfred into the little green house, and he took the opportunity to look around with _great_ curiosity.

This was the only house on the entire street that he'd never been into before. It was that crotchety old couple, the Gordons, who used to live here, and they just hated _everyone_. Especially little children – and _especially_ Alfred. The house was just as much a mystery to Alfred as the new boy. He wanted to know what the rooms looked like – was it like his house, or more like the Smiths' house, or the Petersons' house? He hoped it was more like _his_ house. His house was the best one. Oh, it was all so exciting!

"My name is Alice Kirkland. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Alfred stuck out his hand, as his father had taught him. "Alfred F. Jones, ma'am. I live at number 50, the big blue one."

"Oh, of course. I met your mother briefly and she told me you might be popping in some time. It's _so_ kind of you to come fetch Arthur like this," the lady was saying, as she showed him into the living room. "We just moved in, all the way from England, so he doesn't know anyone in the _whole_ big country of yours!" Alfred clenched his fists: yep, this new boy definitely needed a hero. "I do so hope you'll show him around? I'm sure he would love it!"

"It'll be my pleasure, ma'am," Alfred said, giving her his most winning smile. Alice's heart was completely won over, and she hurried upstairs to fetch Arthur, leaving Alfred with a glass of cold lemonade which quite delighted him. The new neighbours were so much better than the old ones. And the downstairs looked like _his_ house the most, only smaller, so it was all turning out splendidly.

Alfred looked around inquisitively at all the decorations and furnishings in the room, swinging his legs and scuffing the carpet as he sipped at his lemonade. Finally his eyes travelled over to the door, where he found the new boy watching him.

Yes, he was definitely older. He didn't look much _bigger_, though, which was a good thing. Just…older. And, therefore, smarter and cooler and more important to get to know. Older kids new so much about the world, and Alfred was dying for someone to tell him, so he could report back to other children his age. Knowing an older kid would give Alfred's reputation such a boost. Not that he really _needed_ it.

"How old are you?" Alfred asked, before he could remember his manners.

"I'm 12."

_Twelve_? _Wow_. Although Alfred _had_ been expecting a teenage number: the boy's sharp eyes and stiff poise made him look so mature. But, then again, Alfred wasn't very good at judging older people's ages (he'd thought his 15 year old babysitter was in her thirties, at _least_). And besides, Arthur was all the way from _England_, so that gave him extra interest points. And anyway, twelve was still pretty good.

"And how old are you,_ 4_? You're supposed to say your _name_ first when introducing yourself. Or do they not teach you proper manners in America?"

It was then (finally) that Alfred took note of the scowl on the other boy's face.

Now that the big question of his neighbour's _age_ was out of the way, Alfred actually took in the other's appearance – the frown clouding his vibrant green eyes, the downturned mouth, the thick black eyebrows furrowed, unimpressed, behind a shaggy blonde fringe.

"Sorry," Alfred murmured. He felt very bashful all of a sudden, around this exotic older boy. "I…got a little carried away because…I'm so excited to meet you." He coughed and held his head up high, sticking his hand firmly out into the space between them. "My name is Alfred F. Jones. I live at number 50, with my father and mother. My father. Mr. Jones, works in finance. I'm 10 years old. I like playing sports, especially baseball, and I also enjoy reading, drawing, and bike riding."

Arthur's eyes lit up in hope and he grasped Alfred' hands, shaking it heartily. "Arthur Kirkland," he said quickly, and then rushed on. "You like reading and drawing? What are your favourite books? Are you any good at drawing?"

"Oh, I don't read books. I meant reading comics." Arthur deflated. "And…drawing comics…" Arthur dropped Alfred's hand entirely and they stood there dumbly.

"Sorry," Alfred added.

"No, it's quite all right," said Arthur, shrugging. "I'm just not familiar with comics."

It was Alfred's turn to light up. "I can show you!" he offered excitedly, practically bouncing on the spot. "I'm sure you'll love them! If you like reading and drawing, you'll _certainly_ like comic books! Would you like to come and see my collection some time?"

Arthur blinked and twisted his hands together, bashfully. "Thank you. That's very kind of you, Alfred. I appreciate it."

"No problem! Like I said, I'm so excited to meet you!" Alfred rambled, completely taken away with the thoughts of befriending the new neighbour. Over _comics_, no less! "I hope we can be friends! Do you want to be friends? I want to show you all over town, if you'd like! I've never met anyone from England. Can you tell me what it's like? What was the war like? Was it very terrible? Why did you move here? Can I look around your house? The last people who lived here were horrible, so I never saw inside. But your mother is so nice! She gave me lemonade! Do you get lemonade all the time? My mother makes me apple pie – you _have_ to try some! Why don't you come over for dinner tonight!"

Arthur stared, a blush building on his face at having the little American boy show so much interest in him. He'd never found himself that fascinating, and neither had anyone else – but Alfred was practically on tiptoes, leaning in close with the brightest sparkle in his eyes as he interrogated him.

It would be very nice to have a friend here.

"I _do_ like sports and bike riding," Arthur said, rather unexpectedly, even to him. "Um…you asked me a minute ago…"

Alfred laughed freely. "So I did. Well, that's swell! We can play together! It's summer vacation, so we have lots of time to have fun before school starts. You won't…" He trailed off, looking very forlorn all of a sudden, head hanging like a scolded puppy.

"What is it? Alfred?" asked Arthur, peering up into his face.

"It's a bit silly…"

"No, not at all," Arthur reassured him, rubbing the younger boy's arm encouragingly. "You can tell me. We're…friends, after all. Aren't we?"

Alfred looked up, face blank, just giving Arthur a few, slow blinks. Then a wide smile spread to his cheeks, and his sky blue eyes twinkled like they were alive all on their own. "Yes! We are! Thank you! I mean, that'll be super!" Alfred exclaimed. "I…was just hoping you wouldn't forget about me when school starts. But, we're friends so…it'll be okay."

Arthur found his new friend's smile to be thoroughly infectious. He found his own lips twitching upwards in return, just at the sight of Alfred's unbridled joy.

It was the first time Arthur had smiled in weeks. Ever since his mother had told him they would leave England, he'd been miserable. He'd dreaded it – felt lonely even before he got here, just knowing that he'd be on his own from now on.

But maybe if he had at least _one_ friend who wanted him here, he could manage for now. It was unlike Arthur to brighten up or warm to someone so very quickly, but Alfred had come at just the right time: Arthur was pretty sick of being miserable, and here was someone who was thrilled just at the _thought_ of being his friend. A little boy who was looking up at him so eagerly, expecting him to be fun and exciting. And it made Arthur _feel_ big and fun and exciting. Just a little, really – but after so long of feeling nothing at all, a little felt like a whole lot to him.

The two boys left the living room, planning to head to Alfred's house to check out his comic books.

But Mrs. Kirkland stopped them in the doorway.

"I was thinking…" she said slowly, catching the boys' curiosity and leaving them hovering by the door for more. "Arthur here had to leave most of his toys and belongings behind when we moved to America. And I know he'll certainly be wanting a new bicycle before long." Arthur lit up, and Mrs. Kirkland sighed inwardly in relief. He was looking better – getting excited about something. Alfred had done wonders for him already. "Alfred, could I ask you to do me a big favour and show Arthur to the nearest bicycle shop? You can help him choose one – tell him the best bikes everyone around here is using. Would that be all right?"

Alfred started fidgeting excitedly, thrilled at the prospect of not only going bicycle shopping, but getting to be the one to teach Arthur – the new, cool, older kid in the neighbourhood – what was popular in town. He felt like a king.

"I would be honoured, Mrs. Kirkland, ma'am. I just got my first bicycle for my birthday last week, so I know all about them."

Alice laughed, and Arthur stepped forwards, to hug his mother around the waist. "Thank you, Mum."

Alice, stroked her son's fair hair, chest feeling very much lighter than it had done in a while. "You're welcome, love."

She handed them their money, trusting them to keep it safe, and to tell Alfred's parents where they were going before they set off. Alfred could hardly control himself at being in charge of so much money, even if Arthur was the one carrying it in his pocket. He just felt so important. Being Arthur's friend was already amazing.

And it would only get better once he and Arthur could set off on their bicycles together, roaming around town to their hearts' content, all summer long. They could explore even further and have even _more_ adventures than Alfred could by himself.

And Alfred could teach Arthur all about life in America, and Arthur could tell him all about England, and they could be great friends by the time school started. Maybe even _best_ friends – so that everyone in school would know that the new English boy was _Alfred's_ friend _first_ and foremost.

And hopefully, when next summer came around, they could do it all over again.

* * *

**A/N:**

Written for the Olympics over on the USxUK LiveJournal Community.

When I got the idea for this story it was actually much longer in my head. The story was split into sections detailing how their relationship grows over the years, from one bike to the next.

However, due to the time restraints of the event for which I wrote this, I could only do "Their First Bikes."

I don't know if I will ever continue this story, but I would like to. One day.


	2. Their Second Bikes

Their Second Bikes

It was a strange town, this one. Naturally, most of its inhabitants were American, but there was a rather obscure number of foreigners one could expect to see frequenting the shops, strolling around town, running businesses, and going to school. People from all over Europe and a few other countries besides, who had seen the war coming and escaped before it was too late. It led to some very interesting accents drifting around –especially at school.

Most of the children had been born here, save for those, like Arthur, whose parents had moved to America _after_ the war to try to get away from the memories. But still, even those that had spent their whole lives in this little town had grown up learning English in a household that spoke two languages. If they spoke English at home, it was taught by parents with strong European accents; if they spoke Something-Else at home, then naturally it affected their English sometimes, and foreign words slipped into their sentences when they didn't know the correct word in English.

The accents were the most obvious thing about it, but Arthur began to notice just how different and unique everyone at school seemed to be.

Everybody had a story to tell about the war – a father who saved this many people, an uncle who piloted such-and-such a plane, a mother who got to cut off a soldier's leg! And besides that, it seemed that everybody had a culture their family had brought with them to America – something that nobody else knew about, with which they could impress and amaze each other constantly. Francis got the most amazing packed lunches, because he swore that everyone in France was a five star chef. Antonio told everyone that people in Spain wrestled bulls to stay in shape. Everyone was so different, and so impressive.

Most of the children had odd and interesting traditions at home that made people jealous or laugh, too. The parents from other countries wanted to keep their history alive, raise their children the way they had been raised, and so a lot of them ended up with some quirky lifestyles at home that were always a talking point with the Americans. Santa Claus visited Feliks house twice in December, just because he was Polish. Kiku slept on the _floor_, if you can believe it, and he was actually allowed to slurp his soup and spaghetti!

The novelties never grew old or rand dry, even as the days went by and Arthur grew accustomed to life in America. Everyone around here was different, everyone was unique…And yet Alfred still chose to stick around with _him_.

Arthur had sort of understood it at first. 'New kids' were exciting, and Alfred didn't know any other English children who had actually been in London during the war (not that Arthur could provide the gory details Alfred wanted to hear, since he'd only been very young at the time). Arthur was older, too, so he made a good friend for purposes of playground status. He also lived about three houses down, so it made sense that Alfred would get to know him quickly.

But he stuck around. And he didn't seem to want to leave, although a year had slowly grown beyond their first meeting.

Even when a twelve-year-old Hungarian girl, an approachable tomboy, moved in just round the corner, Alfred didn't hang around her as much as he did Arthur. Sure he talked to her, showed her off at school as his new friend, and invited her bike riding with them (because his mother had made him, he confided in Arthur). But he soon got tired of her, and when she made her own friends he forgot about her completely. He even admitted to Arthur that he preferred it when it was just the two of them.

Although there were plenty of people more interesting and special and exciting than Arthur, Alfred stuck with him. And Arthur found that hard to understand when he could see so _clearly_ just how interesting and special and exciting other people were.

"Um…Alfred?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't you… want to hang out with other people?"

Alfred's tires screeched to a stop on the pavement as he dug his heels into the ground. Arthur, surprised, rode on a little before tugging on his breaks and leaning one foot down on the ground. He turned his head to look at Alfred, a few paces behind him.

He looked devastated.

"Do you _want_ me to hang out with other people?" he asked, heart almost visibly ready to shatter.

It felt like they were in a ghost town. Everything looked brown and barren in the summer heat wave, and the road and gardens of the nearby houses were empty as everyone took refuge from the weather indoors. No doors were open, nobody in sight. A rare breeze swept down the road and Arthur shuddered into the silence he hadn't really noticed before. When had he started being able to ride around with Alfred in silence without feeling the need to fill the air with noise? Alfred was never quiet…

"No. I want it to be just you me," said Arthur quietly. He was echoing the words Alfred had said when they'd stopped hanging around with Elizabeta, the Hungarian girl. But it was still oddly embarrassing, and Arthur had to quickly look down at the pavement and scuff his shoe on some gravel.

When he glanced back, Alfred was looking at him. A smile Arthur hadn't realised had become so familiar and heart-warming to him spread across Alfred's face, his eyes shining in a way Arthur didn't think he'd ever noticed on anyone else. It was all a little…odd.

Alfred flipped the kickstand of his bike back up and rode forward to line up with Arthur.

"Me, too. You're my best friend," smiled Alfred, looking unashamedly at the other, no awkwardness or nerves in his face or voice at all.

Arthur let the smile grow on his own face, relieved that he hadn't upset the other boy or turned him away. "You're my best friend, too."

Alfred's smile widened, his white teeth standing out in his summer-sun-tanned face, and Arthur felt his own features working to mirror him. Though he could never manage a smile quite as good as Alfred's.

In the years that followed, they would look back on this conversation as the start of it all. It probably didn't really have a beginning, but this was the moment they'd remember. They wouldn't tell each other, though: it was the same secret, but they each kept it to themselves. If one of them happened to mention this day, they'd pretend they didn't remember it so clearly: not the sepia colours of the summer afternoon, the screech of Alfred's tires or the cloudless blue sky. They'd pretend that their hearts hadn't been fluttering, that they'd hadn't been so nervous to say something so simple, that they weren't different than any other pair of best friends.

Alfred was eleven, and Arthur was thirteen. They'd both got new bicycles for their birthdays because they'd outgrown last year's, and the 50s were being kind to their parents – money coming in and an easy lifestyle to enjoy. They were going to spend the summer riding around together as usual, and it was going to be great. And it was. Sometimes it just felt a little different to last year…


	3. Their Third Bikes

~ Their Third Bikes ~

So much had happened this year. A lifetime's worth of worries and frustration, all crammed into twelve months. Arthur was exhausted and on edge all at the same time, and his mother just chalked it up to him being a teenager now.

And that was infuriating all on its own. To have people betraying him left, right and centre, and then being told _they_ weren't doing anything wrong, it was just _him_ being emotional. He could barely stand it. And yet the more he protested that it _wasn't_ all down to his adolescence, that he really _was _hurt, the more people just rolled their eyes at him, and chuckled knowingly. Eventually, he just stopped talking.

He couldn't even remember what had come first, he was so disorientated and stressed. Was it Alfred abandoning him for Ivan, or had it been his mother's new fiancé? It had been so long since it all started – almost a full year. It was the start of summer once again, and the past school year (now over, _thank God_) had been the worst months of his life – bad enough to rival what he could remember of the war back in England.

It all started back in September. When school began again, it was clear that a lot of children had been listening to their parents talk about the "communists." (Although some children still insisted it was pronounced "commonists.") Maybe they hadn't even been _listening_ to the grown-ups – they'd just heard things around the house all summer, and it sank in the way adult things sometimes do. Like last year when Ludwig kept hearing his older brother, Gilbert, talking about all the teenagers in high school racing for "pinks," and it became a fad at the local elementary to punch somebody's pinkie if they lost a game on the playground.

Now the big news on the playground was "communists". Apparently, America had an evil enemy, and anyone could be a hero if you just told your parents or a police officer that you knew a Russian person. Because, as far as the children at school understood it, a communist was a Russian person who was either living in America, or who worked with missiles back in Russia.

Whatever the case, there was a Russian boy at school named Ivan, so he stood no chance this year. Even though he'd been fairly popular before because he was big and strong, and had a funny accent and weird sisters. This year he was cast out without a shred of remorse. Nobody even knew why it had to be done, they just knew they weren't supposed to talk to him, and that they were even allowed to be mean if they felt like picking on someone.

Arthur didn't fall for any of it. Even though he still wasn't entirely what was going on with the whole "communist" business, he was pretty sure Ivan wasn't a bad person.

At least, that was until he _stole_ Alfred…

You'd think that for his crippling obsession with heroes, and grand plans of being famous for "something heroic" one day, Alfred would have been the first one to turn on Ivan. You could be an American hero simply for something as easy as 'not being friends with a Russian person.' Everything Alfred had ever wanted was practically being handed to him on a plate.

And he had to go knocking the plate flying in his innocent rush to do the right thing.

Arthur knew Alfred was a good person. Fundamentally, intrinsically, deep down in his soul, Alfred was the best of the best. He was only twelve, and most kids weren't really evil at that point in time, like most parents and teachers and neighbours were. But still, it was obvious that Alfred was just a cut above "decent," for which most people settled. He was pure "good," and whenever the opportunity came to show that, he shone.

Which apparently meant that he had to ditch Arthur and spend an entire year with Ivan.

Arthur knew that being friends with Ivan was a brave and honest move, and he didn't blame Alfred for doing a good deed. But abandoning Arthur in the process? He would have understood if Alfred politely let Ivan join them in reading comics, drawing, playing sports, riding bikes, and so on. It could still have been the two of them, with Ivan _tagging along_ because they felt sorry for him. But that's not how it was. Alfred just _left_ him. He chose Ivan over Arthur, and never looked back. It wasn't because he felt sorry for Ivan: he just plain liked him better.

And that made Ivan a bad person in Arthur's books. Obviously he'd _tricked_ Alfred into liking him more! Alfred was a good boy, he wouldn't drop Arthur just like that! It was too mean! Ivan had to be manipulating Alfred in some way, controlling his brain! Maybe…

_Maybe he really _was_ an evil communist! _Pretending_ to be a normal kid, but secretly his family was helping their country destroy America from the inside! Starting with Alfred, the nicest person in the country!_

It was the only explanation, so Arthur spent the entire month of October leading the snubbing of the Braginski family – turning a blind eye to the disappointed looks Alfred sent him across the school yard, because obviously the boy had been corrupted and didn't know any better.

Arthur would have kept it up as long as possible, until he found a way to save Alfred from Russian mind control. But after several stern 'talking-to's from his mother, teacher, vice-principal, the principal, and the librarian, he had to admit to himself…he knew Ivan wasn't a communist and that Alfred wasn't corrupted. He knew that.

Arthur was just a lousy human being and Alfred didn't want to be his friend anymore. It wasn't right to take it out on Ivan. It was all his _own_ fault.

So that was the first two months of the year. Losing his best friend, turning on a perfectly nice family out of spite, and then coming to terms with the fact that he was a bad person and nobody could ever like him.

It was at this point that his mother brought home a man she'd been keeping secret for a year, and encouraged the three of them to act like a fake family. Because Arthur wasn't good enough for _her_, either – _she_ needed someone else, too.

Eight long months passed. Arthur grew a bit taller, but was still one of the shortest in his class. So that was great. His fourteen-year-old classmates suddenly decided that appearance was absolutely the only thing that mattered about a person, which put Arthur at a disadvantage with his thick, dark eyebrows, scruffy scarecrow hair and gangly limbs. And if you didn't get a big allowance to buy new clothes or magazines or records then nobody had anything to say to you. So Arthur found himself being quiet a lot these days. The one relief he had was that he didn't feel _bad_ about being poorer than the other students. He didn't blame his mum for the fact that they didn't have a lot of money: she'd been through a lot, and was a single mother, after all.

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise when she told him that she wouldn't be anymore.

"David" (or Mr. Holloway, as Arthur insisted on calling him) had the gall to decide he was going to marry his mother, and call himself his new father.

Everything about it…Everything about _everything_ made Arthur sick.

So, naturally, he decided to run away.

And he'd do it on his mother and Mr. Holloway's fake wedding day (it couldn't be real because she was already married!), just to make them feel as betrayed as he'd felt all year. Then maybe they'd finally understand that they had hurt him. It wasn't just his body changing. It was everyone around him.

Arthur actually prepared in advance, he was so serious about this. He packed up some things that he would have to take with him, and put them in his small, sturdy suitcase. The trusty suitcase he had brought all the way from England when they moved to America. At the time, they hadn't been able to bring much from home. That suitcase had held all Arthur's most precious books and toys that he couldn't bear to leave behind. Now it was only essentials like clean underwear, toothpaste, and a raincoat.

He hated growing up.

He rode his bike out to one of his and Alfred's old haunts, hoping to God that Alfred had not brought Ivan there, because that really would be the last straw.

_But why _wouldn't_ he bring Ivan there? _his mind cheerfully explained to him on the ride up there. _It's not _your_ special place anymore, it's _theirs_, he doesn't have to keep it sacred for you_. It was nice that some part of him was trying to be logical, but it just sounded vindictive, and left Arthur feeling a burning poison eating away at him inside.

He left his suitcase in a dry thicket – _almost_ trusting that it wouldn't be disturbed, but then with the year he'd had, he wouldn't be surprised if it were stolen – and went back to the little green house, empty handed. For the next few days he waited, silent as usual, glaring at everyone to give them a clue that he wasn't happy and maybe they should step in and say something if they actually cared.

But nobody did.

So as the sun rose up on his mother's special day, Arthur was out the door, tucking some dollar bills into his shorts' pocket, hopping onto his bicycle and tearing away as fast as he could.

If his suitcase was still there, that would be about the only good thing that had happened to him all year.

After a quarter of an hour or so through the quiet of Saturday morning suburbs, over some golden summery fields and round the corner of the little dry thicket, Arthur arrived at the small, deserted meadow he and Alfred used to come to together. It was nothing much, but it had a bit of everything. There was a cool stream running past the thicket for when they got hot, a small hill to sit on to watch over the town, a tree right at the top to lean against, and the slope of the hill was surrounded by other small hillocks and bushes to shield them from passing eyes.

It had seemed like such a magnificent find two years ago, and now Arthur wondered what the big deal was. It was just a patch of dry grass. He shouldn't let himself believe simple little things could bring him happiness. He was too old for that.

He kicked down his bicycle stand and headed to the thicket where he'd dumped his suitcase. And, of course, it was gone.

Arthur quite surprised himself by not crying. He was right at the end of his rope – all he had to clutch on to were the frayed edges, saving him from plummeting somewhere he couldn't name. But somehow he wasn't crying.

Maybe he was just _that_ tired.

He crawled over to the genlte slope of the hill, and curled himself up in a warm patch of summer sunlight and just waited for the next horrible thing to happen. Maybe this time it would actually kill him and he wouldn't have to worry anymore.

"Arthur?"

He _must_ be tired, because he couldn't even feel anything at the sound of that familiar voice. Maybe a hint of excitement and a dash of fear, but he certainly didn't find the energy to move.

"What do you want Alfred?" he mumbled into his arm, staying curled up on the grass.

"Huh? Can't hear you."

"What do you _want_, Alfred?" Arthur barked, sitting bolt upright and glaring up at his once-friend who was standing on the hilltop above him. He softened a bit when he saw Alfred's wide, shocked eyes and the suitcase he held clutched in his hands.

"I…I found this in the thicket the other day. I knew it was yours 'cause you showed it to me before. And just to make sure, I looked inside and your clothes have your name on."

Feeling angrily embarrassed that Alfred had touched his socks and underwear, Arthur's irritation flared up again. "Give it back then. I don't know why you were touching it in the first place if you knew it was mine."

He waited for Alfred to trudge down the small hill and hand him back his suitcase. But instead, Alfred swung it round behind his legs, where it bashed against the backs of his knees.

"No."

Arthur stared at him. Alfred stared back. And it was obvious that the boy had some stupid plan in his head. His ideas were always so innocent and naïve and it made Arthur's heart hammer in pain knowing he was too grown up for them, and sweet little Alfred couldn't save him now.

Arthur got up slowly, pushing himself off the ground with a lot of effort because he still felt tired, and now he felt everything else, too. He took a few steps up the hill towards Alfred, glaring him down the whole way.

"Give it to me."

"No," Alfred repeated, taking a step back this time.

All right, now Arthur was just angry. Maybe not at Alfred, but Alfred was here to take it.

Arthur launched himself up the hill, and Alfred wasn't quick enough to escape. He tried to turn and run, but the hard suitcase clashed painfully against his legs and made him stumble before he even got going. He'd only managed to climb a few steps before Arthur was on him, leaping to grab him round the middle so he couldn't escape. Alfred swung his arm wildly, and the weight of the heavy suitcase made him lose his balance, until he was falling backwards on top of Arthur.

The tumbled down the hill, the suitcase banging dangerously after them, stray rocks slashing at their bare legs, hands and feet hitting each other wildly – some by accident, some on purpose – all the way down.

They landed in a flurry of dead grass and limbs at the bottom of the hill, beside the path where Arthur had left his bike. They must have landed heavily, too, because the bicycle shook with the force of their collision to earth. It wobbled a bit, and just as they both looked up in fear, it fell on top of them: the bike on top of Alfred on top of Arthur.

"_Ow!_"

"Shit."

Alfred gasped so dramatically at Arthur's foul language that he inhaled a few blades of grass down his throat and began choking. It was such a funny sight that Arthur started laughing…and soon he found he couldn't stop. Even when Alfred glared at him, when he frowned, when he started smiling, when he playfully headbutted Arthur's shoulder and told him to shut up, when he started to laughed along, Arthur didn't stop.

After what seemed like forever – maybe just because he couldn't remember laughing like that for so long – Arthur calmed down. There were tears in his eyes that he couldn't wipe away because bits of Alfred and bike were pinning him down. He was covered in grass and dry dirt. He could see his suitcase burst open nearby, spilling socks and underwear all over the ground. He ached everywhere, and it didn't help that Alfred was still lying on top of him, pressing against all his new cuts and bruises from the fall, and resting his head on Arthur's pained shoulder as he recovered from their laughing fit. He was a mess. But Arthur didn't mind this mess as much as everything else that he'd gone through this year.

"I can't believe you said a bad word!" Alfred grinned somewhere near Arthur's neck. "Are you allowed to swear at home when you're fourteen?"

Arthur shook his head as much as he could in his awkward position. "No. I just don't care," he replied, very smugly.

Alfred raised himself carefully on his hands to hover over Arthur, bicycle wheel clanking against his head as he did so. He stared down at the older boy with bright, proud eyes full of admiration. And maybe a bit of the sky trapped in there as always, too.

And boy, did Arthur miss him. He wished he knew what to say to keep them like this. But he was too scared to apologise and get rejected, or to ask and hear why Alfred hated him these days.

Alfred's smile faded and he began to search Arthur's face with a worried frown, as if looking for an answer he was afraid to find out. Arthur waited, knowing exactly what was going to come tumbling out of the oblivious boy's mouth.

"Why was your suitcase in the thicket?"

Arthur wrenched his head away to glare at the grass, eyes falling on the very suitcase in question.

"Did you find it with _Ivan_ when you were playing here?" he spat out.

Morbidly fascinated to hear Alfred admit it, he watched the boy's reaction out of the corner of his eyes. But Alfred only blinked at him, dumbfounded.

"I never brought Ivan here," he said, sounding surprised that Arthur even thought it possible. "We said this was _our_ place."

Oh, God. Arthur almost wished Alfred hadn't said it.

He was the _best_ friend. And Arthur was scum. He had doubted the American, thought that Alfred didn't treasure their friendship as much as Arthur did. But Alfred was a better person than him. And that wasn't Arthur being modest, it was just a fact. So if _he_ held their friendship close to his heart, then of course _Alfred_ would hold it ten times closer, ten times more carefully. He was just like that. With everyone…

"Right," was all Arthur could manage to say amidst the tumult of "sorry"s and "can we still be friends"es and "I miss you"s tearing around his head.

"I just come here by myself sometimes because I hope _you'll_ be here. And then we can hang again."

Arthur winced, actually _feeling_ the words pierce his heart. Alfred came here alone to wait for him. Just hoping he'd show up. God, he was so perfect. How was it possible that someone like him could exist outside of a happy fairy tale, and how was it that someone like him would stick around with _Arthur_?

"I left my suitcase here because I was running away," Arthur said, barely registering that it was in the past tense. Obviously he wasn't going anywhere now. He wasn't leaving Alfred ever again unless Alfred wanted him to. But he owed him the truth, so he might as well admit it.

"Why?"

"'_Why?!_' Bloody hell, Alfred."

Alfred's face shone with a lopsided grin for half a second, always excited to hear a swear word. But then his frown grew back. And what with his bright blue eyes hovering so close over Arthur, and his head blocking out the real heavens above, that frown made it look like the sky had been clouded over and the summer day turned dark and gloomy. Arthur couldn't stand that kind of look on the boy's face.

"Can I come with you?" Alfred asked.

Now it was Arthur's turn to stare in amazement. "Why do _you_ want to run away?"

"I don't," said Alfred, looking ever so casual about the prospect. "I just want to go if you're going."

Arthur blushed, and suddenly realised that he should be more concerned about Alfred lying on top of him. It was just that it was nice having him so close after all this year spent apart.

"I'm not going anymore," he mumbled, then struggled to sit up. "Get off me now, will you."

Alfred reached up behind him and shoved Arthur's bike off his back. It clattered off to the side, and the American sat up gingerly, resting his weight on Arthur's legs. Arthur winced in pain, so Alfred quickly flopped off him and looked on worriedly as the older boy examined his gangly limbs carefully.

"Did you break anything?" asked Alfred, sounding equal parts hopeful and concerned.

"No. Just hurts."

"Mm, me, too," said Alfred, squeezing some cuts on his arms to make blood ooze out. He grew silent as Arthur stretched and tested his limbs and rubbed a few bruises. Once again, Arthur waited for him to speak up. It was only a matter of time, with Alfred.

"Were you running away because of your mom?"

"No. Because of Mr. Holloway."

Alfred nodded, a look of utmost understanding on his face. He must have been faking it, though, for Arthur's sake. Because Alfred had both his parents and didn't have to worry about what it felt like or what it meant when your own mother brought someone else into your home because you weren't important enough and she still needed more. And also because, if Arthur were honest…looking at it from Alfred's perspective, Mr. Holloway probably didn't seem that bad, anyway.

That was a funny thought, Arthur realised. Looking at others through Alfred's eyes…people must be so nice. He sat there quietly for a moment as he thought about his new revelation, the sun bathing him comfortably and Alfred, reading the atmosphere for once, giving him a moment's peace to think.

Yes, if he looked at the world from Alfred's view, Mr. Holloway didn't really seem that bad. He was an older gentleman, with a bit of a limp left over from WWII, but it didn't make him seem too scary. In fact, he was usually smiling, unless Arthur was being rude to him. He reminded Arthur a bit of his mother, actually. She was so lovely and patient, but he knew she had terrible memories of the war. Mr. Holloway must be like that, too: for all his smiles, he still had that limp as a reminder of what he'd been through. They were very kind for not talking about all the bad things they remembered, and just pretending to be happy for everyone else's sakes. Maybe they could talk to each other about terrible things nobody else understood, and Mr. Holloway could make his mother feel better.

Maybe…from Alfred's perspective…Mr. Holloway was actually a nice man. And Alfred looked at Arthur and thought _he_ was strange and cruel for hating him – just because he wanted a new family.

Looking at things through Alfred's eyes just made Arthur see even more how awful he was.

But at least that was one problem down. He didn't have to worry about his mother having a horrible new husband anymore.

"Anyway. I've changed my mind. I'm not running away now."

Alfred looked up and sighed, unreservedly. "Good. I'd miss you."

Arthur was about to smile when he remembered he was still angry about the traumas he'd suffered this year.

"Unlikely," he spat out, venomously. "You have _Ivan_, you don't care about _me_ anymore." He didn't even want to be saying these things! Even if he _felt_ them, he didn't want Alfred knowing how bitter and twisted he was and looking down on him or being disappointed. But the words just tumbled out because, as he kept reminding himself, he was a bad person and bad people complained like this.

And once again, Alfred was staring at him in shock.

"I _always_ care about you!"

"Then why did you…sodding…_abandon_ me this year and only be friends with _him_?" Arthur exclaimed, struggling to find the words or get them out. They were too painful to admit out loud, made them even more real than just feeling around their edges in his head.

Alfred got on his knees and clutched the hem of his shorts tight in his hand as he stared Arthur down. Bless him. Any other boy or girl would have been hurt or scared by an older boy, a teenager, yelling at them and accusing them and just being a general grown-up about things. But Alfred had a very hard head, and sometimes it came in handy.

"That's not fair! You were the one who abandoned _me_!"

Arthur blinked at him, so taken aback that he could feel his mind actually grind to a halt like a rusty set of gears.

"What?"

Alfred huffed and frowned at him, but not a cold, unfriendly glare like the ones Arthur had been tossing his way. Just a stubborn sort of look that made Arthur want to smile for some reason. "When I started sticking up for Ivan, you didn't want to be friends anymore because you thought he was a commie!"

"I did _not_ think Ivan was a commie!" he said, sounding insulted by the idea.

Alfred leant back a little, eyeing Arthur up as if he didn't quite trust his words. And, to be fair, he had reason to be suspicious, after the way Arthur had acted towards the Braginskis at the beginning of the year.

Now, there was no real way to explain himself to Alfred unless he told the truth. Which didn't sound too appealing because it was far too sentimental. But…Arthur _did_ owe his friend an explanation, and if his explanation involved admitting how lousy he was, then so be it.

"I was just…jealous."

Sadly, Alfred didn't quite get all the implications of that confession on his own. He _was_ pretty oblivious sometimes.

"…I don't get it."

Arthur groaned and turned himself gingerly to face Alfred. He pulled his knees up to his chest and linked his arms around them.

"You started hanging out with Ivan and just never talked to me again."

"Because _you_ thought he was a commie!"

"No, I was just…angry that you didn't want to be my friend anymore, so I took it out on Ivan. I…know that was wrong. I'm sorry about that."

With an apology hanging heavily in the light summer air between, Alfred seemed to relax a little, realising he was not under attack. Or maybe just relieved that Arthur didn't hate him after all, and that maybe he missed Alfred, too.

"When I started hanging out with Ivan," he said, sounding unsure for the first time Arthur could recall, "and you started not to talk to me…my mom said it was because you were a teenager and didn't want to spend time with a little kid anymore."

Arthur watched as the boy tucked his legs against his stomach and encircled them with his arms, just like Arthur was doing.

"She said I should give you some space because you wouldn't me tagging along with you so much now, so I…started hanging out with Ivan more than I wanted so I didn't bother you. So…I'm sorry, too. I didn't know it would make you think I didn't like you. I was just trying to help in case you didn't want to be best friends anymore."

Arthur really wanted to crawl over and touch Alfred reassuringly, or at least to look him in the eye as he said this. But there was just something a little too nerve-wracking about that, so he settled for summoning the sincerest voice he could manage.

"Alfred. I will absolutely, 100%, always want to be best friends with you."

He knew he was probably blushing, but it wasn't until he felt Alfred's eyes looking up and settling on him that he felt the heat on his skin, hotter than the sun beating down on them from the summer sky.

"Me, too," Alfred said, and Arthur could hear the smile stretching across his face without having to see it. "And hey…um…"

At the nervous pause, Arthur did look up, and once again found Alfred fidgeting with his shorts and the grass. "The reason I started sticking up for Ivan in the first place…was because of you. Not because I thought he was really cool."

One of Arthur's impressive dark eyebrows arched up into his sandy fringe. "What do you mean?"

And now Alfred was blushing, and it was just adorable. Possibly in a way that Arthur wasn't supposed to notice – only girls really cared about when little children looked sweet and adorable. But…he couldn't help it. The thought just sprang to mind, and there it was for him to deal with.

"Well…At first I was scared he was a commie too," Alfred confessed. "Or maybe not _him_, but his little sister Natalia, 'cause she's really weird." He began tugging up the grass from the dry earth and Arthur could hear the ground stretch and tear under his fingers as the golden grass was ripped away and tossed aside. "But then I thought…what if everyone suddenly hated _English_ people instead of Russians? What if England and America were fighting, and we were told we had to hate everyone from Britain."

He looked up and Arthur found himself snatched up into his bright summer eyes. "I would stick up for you, Arthur," Alfred said fiercely. "I know you wouldn't be bad, even if other English people were. So I realised it wasn't fair to hate Ivan just because he was Russian. I stuck up for him because it was the right thing to do. Because I would do the same for you.

"And…" The fire died in his voice, and he quickly looked down at the grass, embarrassed about something. "I should try to treat other people the same way I treat you, instead of treating you so different," Alfred admitted, wrapping his arms around his knees again and looking down into his lap, voice muffled. "I was happy to have the chance to treat someone else so special because…I kind of think it's weird how I only really care about you…"

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Arthur didn't realise Alfred was admitting a serious, troubling secret until he noticed the shine of the boy's eyes, like the tears would spill over the edge if Arthur judged him poorly now.

But it was the furthest thing from Arthur's mind. Because he felt the exact same.

It _was_ weird how he, himself, only cared about Alfred. Weird how he cared about him _so _much. He didn't know any other best friends who were like them. And somehow, that didn't make him feel good about himself.

But, strangely, what _did_ make him feel good was to hear that Alfred only cared about _him_. That Alfred treated him differently because he thought he was so special. How Ivan wasn't his best friend, Arthur was, and always would be.

For whatever reason, it seemed wrong the way Arthur cared too much about _Alfred_, but it felt _wonderful_ the way Alfred cared too much about _him_. It was a little hypocritical, but so be it. Just another thought that sprang up uninvited which he'd have to deal with later.

"I don't think it's that weird," Arthur mumbled, not even aware of what he was doing with his hands, just knowing they were fidgeting uncontrollably whilst he focused on not smiling like a loon. "I only really care about you, so it seems fair to me."

He looked up to see a bright beam of sunlight light up Alfred's face – or it might have been his smile, it was rather hard to tell them apart sometimes. Either way, Arthur felt warmed and comforted, and was soon smiling back.

"Hey," said Alfred, brightly. Now that their serious talk was over and they were best friends again, he sat up and stretched his legs, releasing the tension that had been suffocating his body despite the wild, fresh air. "If you thought I hated _you _because I preferred Iva_n_, and _I_ thought you hated _me_ because you thought Ivan was a commie…which one of us is in the wrong? Who started it?"

Arthur cocked his head as he thought about it. That _was_ a thought. Alfred hard started spending time with Ivan because Arthur started ignoring him because he was spending time with Ivan…It didn't really seem to make sense, but that was just what had happened, by all accounts.

"I think we both started it at the same time," Arthur said peaceably. He was the elder one after all, and had to be the one to allot blames, apologies and fresh starts. "Maybe we happened to wake up on the same day with a stupid idea in our head. And because the other had had a stupid idea, too, we couldn't talk to each other to sort it out."

"That's lousy and annoying," Alfred laughed. "Can't believe we wasted a whole year on a stupid mistake." He perked up with a bright idea, sending Arthur a crinkley-eyed smile. "Next time we fight…I'll apologise first right away, so this doesn't happen again. I'll tell you you're still my best friend and everything so we can just forget about whatever stupid thing happened."

"And the second time we fight, _I'll_ take the blame, no matter what, so we can get move on," Arthur agreed, not even finding it in himself to be pessimistic and claim that it wouldn't work.

"Great! So the next _next_ time we have a fight, I'll make sure it's my fault so you have to apologise to _me_ for something _I_ did," Alfred laughed, sending Arthur a cheeky grin.

"You're a bastard!" Arthur smirked back, watching victoriously as Alfred burst out laughing at yet another swear.

After a few minutes of putting off the inevitable, Arthur stuffed his clothes back into the suitcase as Alfred set his bicycle upright. It was a new one, because Mr. Holloway had ran over his last one a month ago. It made Arthur ashamed to admit he'd been using a bicycle that hadn't been christened on a ride with Alfred. It just felt wrong.

But Alfred soon cheered him up by confessing that his own bicycle had been stolen, and the one he was using now was an early birthday present. He looked relieved to get the news off his chest, as if he, too, felt bad about using a bicycle that Arthur didn't know personally.

Well, they may have started off riding these bikes apart, but somehow, knowing they'd never ride their bikes without each other again made up for all that.


End file.
